


Gold

by eruthiel



Category: The Monster Hunters (Podcast)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Ficlet Collection, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:18:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruthiel/pseuds/eruthiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's now 1975 in-universe. Time for some bleak af ABBA-inspired ficlets. (yeah u heard)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dancing Queen

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait until I'd finished a few more of these before posting them, but what the heck. I tagged a lot of ships, some of which are only hinted at, I'm afraid. Hope you enjoy! If you comment I will worship the ground on which you tread!
> 
> NB: in most cases, the songs are just jumping-off points for the fics - I had them in mind when I started writing, but then took off in quite different directions. I still recommend listening to the songs alongside the fics. They provide an extra (often ironic) sort of context/commentary. Also, they are all Classic Tunes.

She still goes back sometimes – the same clubs, same songs, same shoes. They're scratched where she pulled them from the wreckage of the church, but you couldn't tell unless you really looked, and she never stays long enough for anyone to get that close. Underneath the bass she thinks she can hear something breathing down her neck, and between the lights she sees Janice's platinum hair bouncing like it used to before flashing back into the dark.

She ought to trade in the shoes for something a bit smarter. She's got an interview for a new secretary job, nothing special, but a rung on the ladder. It's not like she's committing to a lifetime of nine to five drudgery, that's not how it feels – whatever her mother says. It's more like twisting a dial. Slowly turning up a dimmer switch until her life is like daylight, obliterating the shadows, the corners full of mysteries and monsters and fear and wonder and death.

That world still exists, all around her, just under London's bright and busy surface. But she was never truly a part of it. Janice was the one who belonged in the shadow world; Octavia was only ever caught up in her wake, called into the dark depths by her song and her sharp, beautiful teeth.

Now she only glimpses it on Friday nights in Soho, when the music is loud enough to drown out the day and chill her blood and blur the edges of her vision, the same way Janice did.


	2. Mamma Mia

She thinks about burning his clothes, big bonfire on the lawn (and it would be a _big_ bonfire; fortunately, they have a very big lawn). In the end she decides she's not that childish. She still wants to do something spiteful, though.

So she chucks his pinecones, just dumps them while he's out of the country one weekend. When he whines and sobs, she says they were ugly and cluttering up the place, and that collecting is for idiots. All this is true, but that's not why she threw them out, and they both know it.

It ends up with her crying and clutching his sleeves, begging him to be a different person, a better person. He promises and apologises and swears his devotion over and over again, but by now it doesn't do anything to comfort her. My mother's right about you, she says. Right about what about me? he demands. Right about everything about you, she screams. Everything about you is poisonous and awful and worthless.

He gently takes hold of her elbows, to stop her shaking, and fixes his deep brown eyes on hers. Everything? he asks: soft, suggestive, wounded, teasing.

No. No. Not everything, she whispers, her voice cracking as she leans into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still can't believe we made the "novelty pinecone collection" thing angsty. But just imagine if he starts building up a new collection, only to lose it all to Ginny when she divorces him. And then he secretly starts collecting again in a drawer in Lorrimer's spare room, and Lorrimer takes the piss when he finds them, and poor Roy is so upset because he KNEW it would be like this all over again and why can't he just have something that makes him happy?? But he can't articulate why this is important to him and Lorrimer has to figure out that for some reason, this is one thing he just shouldn't make fun of. I did myself a sad I must leave


	3. Lay All Your Love on Me

Why should she feel guilty? He's the bastard, he's the cad. That's the whole point of men like him. That's what everyone said when she married him: he'll wrong you, he'll hurt you, he'll stray. Well, now he's straying all over the shop, and she's entitled to do what she wants. Poor sweet angel, left all alone by her dirty cheating gold-digging disaster drunk of a husband!

Maybe it is a _little_ harsh to go with his erstwhile best friend. But that's where the bastard and the cad come in so handy once again – awful, awful Greg, taking advantage of her loneliness! Going behind Roy's back in his hour of need to seduce his wife! Men really are appalling. Virginia touches the cold band of her wedding ring to her lips and sighs.

"What's the matter, darling?"

"Nothing." She leaves the ring on her dresser and slips back into bed, sliding her hands around Greg's waist.

He grips her tight, not with passion but with casual strength. "Come now. I can read you like a book, Ginny."

"I was thinking about Roy," she concedes. Greg laughs his extremely irritating laugh. "Oh, forget it. It's nothing."

"No, no, I don't mind." Yes you do, she thinks. Greg rolls on with the same tone of forced hilarity. "You're not thinking of taking him back, are you?"

"Not if you paid me a million pounds."

This prompts another laugh, and Virginia has to stop herself wriggling out of his arms and out the door. "Quite right," says Greg, "Leave him to his silly sluts; I think he's happier with them. He never was a good match for you."

"And you are?"

Greg gives her what he thinks is a modest smile. "That's not for me to say. But in light of the fact that _I'm_ here with you now, and Roy is nowhere to be seen..."

"And yet I don't see you scrambling to make an honest woman of me, Greg."

His face falls so quickly, it's Virginia's turn to laugh. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing. I'm just impressed by your ability to sneer at a man's character like that whilst practically in the act of cuckolding him."

"So Roy is better than me because he had the _presumption_ to marry you?"

"That's not what I said."

"Even if he stuck to his vows for less than a month?"

Virginia rolls her eyes. "That's _not_ what I _said_. I told you I wouldn't take him back for all the money in the world."

"Actually, you said 'a million pounds,' darling."

"Well, I'm raising the bar." She feels his grasp start to loosen, and takes advantage of the opportunity to sit up, flicking her hair back over one shoulder with a jerk of her head. Greg stares up at her as she adds, "Look, I'm not defending Roy. He's..." A million words rush from the mouths of her parents and friends and the pages of gossip magazines; there is no other way left to say it. "He's a _man_. We always knew that. But at least he wanted to do the right thing. At least he _tried_."

Greg snorts. "He clearly didn't try very hard."

"No, he didn't. And yet somehow, he still tried harder than you, Greg. Lucky that someone else went ahead and made such a terrible mess with me, really, isn't it? Made it so much easier for you to come along in the aftermath and seem like a charming rogue by comparison."

With an angry huff, Greg sits up beside her. "I don't understand where this is coming from, Virginia," he snaps. "I thought you were happy with our arrangement."

"Oh, it suits me pretty well."

"Then what's all this talk about marriage? Surely you don't expect me to propose? You haven't even divorced Roy yet!"

She gives him a long, cool, guarded stare. "Well, nobody has asked me to remarry yet."

A long silence falls between them, during which Virginia gives nothing away to Greg's bewildered, searching gaze. At last he demands, "Well, would you – divorce him – if _I_ asked you to remarry?"

Virginia feels her face split into a grin. "No," she cackles, "not if you paid me ten million pounds."


	4. Super Trouper

Lucy the orphan falls asleep with a big stupid smile on her face and _Amazing Aquatic Adventures_ under her pillow. She dreams of bright lights filtering down through warm, clear water, and when she opens her mouth there's a stream of pink bubbles as her song echoes around an ocean planet. All the fish and friendly crabs are dancing and beaming at her, and her boyfriend is there, riding a shark, grinning at her in admiration, shining like the sun.

The Queen of Atlantia wakes up in a cold sweat. Plastered across the darkness, in half a second, her mind shows her black waves, hungry tentacles, and a drunk who won't even meet her eye.


	5. Gimme Gimme Gimme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A ~Man After Midnight)

Aramis. The smell of lies and recrimination and weaselling kisses. Typically mixed with whiskey, apology roses and some little whore's perfume. Virginia seized up in the doorway to her own flat as the ghost of her husband rushed through her.

Who else could it be? Which other bastards wore that damned cologne..?

Holding aloft her umbrella, she inched towards the living room. "Hello? Wh-who's there?"

A sultry laugh greeted her. There was a woman on the sofa, holding a glass of Virginia's good wine. She had auburn hair, and her face was unfamiliar, but her manner was not.

Virginia drew herself up to her full 5'2" and forced her voice not to shake. "Who are you? What on earth are you doing in my..."

"Ginny, darling." The home invader put down her glass, rose to her feet and strode towards Virginia on long, perfect legs. "Why so shocked, my dear? I know I've changed a little, but don't you recognise me?"

The scent of Aramis rocked her again. Shame, anger, lust. As the familiar stranger pushed aside her umbrella with a leisurely grin, she suddenly remembered exactly which bastard friend of her bastard husband used to wear that same cologne.


	6. Does Your Mother Know

He wakes in a weird red twilight, fully dressed and alone, with no memory of the previous night. His mouth tastes like the floor of a pub toilet. Rolling to his feet, he swipes a bottle from the floor and finds it empty, so he stumbles out into the hallway in search of hydration.

In the living room, he discovers Lorrimer curled up in a corner of the sofa, poring over a handful of photographs. On the coffee table is a shoebox with more stacked inside.

Lorrimer glances up and wrinkles his nose. "Oh, you're awake. I was beginning to think you'd slipped into a coma."

"Good morning to you too."

Lorrimer gives a little humourless laugh. "It's six o'clock in the evening."

Roy shrugs and wanders into the kitchen, pours himself a drink, wanders back again, drops onto the sofa. Lorrimer's attention has disappeared back into his photographs; Roy nudges him, earning a glare.

"What have you got there?"

"None of your business."

If it was the usual forest trolls and river sprites, that would be the end of it, but Roy can see that some of the pictures feature human girls. Before Lorrimer can stop him, he grabs a handful of photographs out of the shoebox and starts leafing through.

"Hey!"

Roy leans out of Lorrimer's reach and holds him off easily with one foot. "I just want a quick look! Who are these ladies?"

Through the merciless application of fingernails, Lorrimer gets free and manages to snatch one of his pictures back. "Those are private and personal," he seethes, grabbing for the rest, which Roy holds just out of his grasp. "Give them back this instant! Roy! You're going to crease them!"

At this point, a combination of factors – the mildly hysterical tone of Lorrimer's voice, and the familiar face of Margot in the topmost photograph – suggest to Roy that his fun might be over. Muttering an apology, he passes them back to their rightful owner.

"It's all right." Lorrimer, for his part, looks more than a little embarrassed about his outburst. "I don't – I'm just – I haven't looked at these in a while. I thought you would stay in bed for a few more hours at least, or I wouldn't have got them out."

"I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No, don't worry. They're not secret." Nonetheless, Lorrimer hesitates as he shuffles the pictures and shows them to Roy. "Look, here we are at London Museum. Cycling in Greece... and oh, maybe don't look at that one..."

Roy, of course, prises Lorrimer's fingers away from the picture in question. It shows Lorrimer and Margot standing proudly on either side of a lanky teenage girl. The girl is wearing glasses and blonde pigtails sticking out from under a paper crown, and she's holding up a copy of what Roy recognises as one of Lorrimer's weightiest and most boring publications of the previous decade.

Roy's forehead creases. "What's so special about this one? The world's most awkward family photo?"

Lorrimer sighs, resigned to the inevitable. "That's Octavia's sixteenth birthday."

" _What?_ "

"I did tell you not to look at it..."

In light of this information, Roy finds himself struggling for words as he scrutinises the image anew. He can see, clearly now, the girl he met last year – the long limbs, the pointy Chesterfield nose – the same, and yet so different, immeasurably different. Without looking up, Roy asks, "When was this taken?"

"Um, let's see now... that would have been 1968."

" _Four years ago?_ "

"Yes, well done, Roy."

"No, I mean –" Roy waves the picture around awkwardly. "I don't know what I mean." He pauses, looks at the people in the picture, shakes his head. "I suppose that would make her twenty now, then?"

"She was nineteen when you _met_ her," Lorrimer points out sharply. He takes the picture and shuffles it back into the pile, leaving Roy to finish his drink and stare off into space.

Roy doesn't have any pictures of 1968. It's not that they don't exist – that chapter of his life was well-documented in certain sections of the press – but he doesn't exactly like to be reminded. Besides, almost every material scrap of his life before this year has been confiscated and destroyed by his ex-wife.

But he doesn't need photographic evidence to remember what it was like, what he was like. The moment that camera flashed, while Octavia stood there with her uncle and aunt and her unsuitable birthday present and her braces and her dungarees – in another part of the world, Roy was making contact with the pavement because he ignored the No Touching sign. Or slamming the phone down on his mother. Or taking that swing at Greg in the lobby of the Hilton.

He winces as each one hits him, remembering more with his body than his brain. These are the worst times to think about. Afterwards, it's all a boozy, bloody blur, but '68 was a transitional year – one foot still in success, the other already in oblivion. It's all burned into him, clear as day.

Clear as that photograph. Four years! Roy can't explain, even to himself, what has him so thrown about that image of stiff, square, wholesome mundanity. He can't reconcile it with the memories now shivering through him. It seems so wrong that 1968-Octavia and 1968-Roy would ever meet, that two stories could start in such different places, yet converge on the same point, just a few years later.

He looks over at Lorrimer, now carefully sorting the pictures back into the shoebox. For the first time, without even trying, Roy understands how he must feel about the whole Octavia thing. To him, she's always been that bespectacled teenager – before that, even, she was a schoolgirl with gaps in her teeth; a toddler; a little bundle of blankets, small enough to hold in his arms. It's not Lorrimer's fault that she grew up and started hanging around with the likes of Roy Steel.

Roy is about to say something, to try and cram some of the chaos in his brain into a coherent sentence, when Lorrimer glances back up at him. "Oh, don't tell me you're still thinking about my niece. She's practically a child, for god's sake!"

A shock of righteous indignation goes through Roy. For once, Lorrimer's insinuation is so far from the truth that he can't even begin to get defensive. Anyway, what would he say? This is meant to be about Lorrimer's painful memories, not his. Probably not the time to open this can of worms.

"Lorrimer Chesterfield, what do you take me for?" he says, aware of how hollow it sounds. Lorrimer rolls his eyes, and they have both fulfilled their roles in this familiar exchange. The routine having reasserted itself, Roy heaves himself off the sofa and goes to fetch another drink.


	7. The Name of the Game

Suki's not interested in dating; she's not even really interested in having a social life. People, on the whole, are selfish, blundering idiots, men more so than the rest. In an ideal world, she wouldn't have to spend time with them at all. She's in no hurry to get intimate with them, give up her secrets.

But she's seen how Lorrimer Chesterfield treats secrets – an archaeologist and a puzzle-solver, methodical, careful, filled with respect and awe. She'd quite like to be subject to that analytical gaze, have him try to peel back her layers.

She hasn't decided yet how far down she'll let him dig. The problem is, by the time she makes up her mind, he may already be too deep.


End file.
